Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

She exhales. “Agent Smith will make up for the lack of experience on your alpha team.”

  “They aren't inexperienced,” I snap. “Those men have kept me safe from a hell of a lot the past couple of years.” I struggle to keep my cool. “How about a compromise?” I arch a brow. “Agent Smith can join the team but not as team lead. Those agents follow Team Lead Washington because he has earned their trust and respect. I won’t leave my team vulnerable while you try to make another agent fit into a role that is already filled.”

  “Noted.”

  The worn fabric of the chair’s seat catches the fine material of my Chanel suit pants as I twist to look at my team’s new agent.

  Taller than me by a few inches, from what I can tell still sitting, with dirty-blond hair and smooth fair skin. Stormy gray eyes slide to me, and the emptiness behind them draws me back an inch. With his average haircut, standard charcoal gray suit, and nondescript facial features, he’s someone I could forget the moment he’s out of sight. Almost like he’s trying to look as plain and blendable as possible. Maybe he was trained to do so.

  Interesting.

  “CIA.” Agent Smith doesn't even acknowledge I said anything. “NSA?” Nothing. “Homeland Security?” The loose-fitting jacket shifts with his deep inhale. Seems I’m either annoying or boring to Mr. Spy. “MI6, Mossad, Russian intelligence?”

  Even though I know he’s not a part of the latter because the Russian president and I are besties, and he would’ve given me a heads-up about this.

  The director speaks up, halting my interrogation. “With several years of service to this country in a different capacity, Agent Smith was recently reassigned to the Secret Service Division.”

  I shoot her a suspicious side-eye perusal. “Reassigned, you say.” I chew on my lower lip, something I’ve been doing more since my attempt to stop anxiously chewing on my nails. “Here’s what you need to know about my expectations of the team. If you're an arrogant bastard, it’s fine, you'll fit in well, but I won't put up with sexist or male chauvinist shit.” I wince at the curse slip. “Chauvinist crap.” There. That's slightly better. “And Agent Washington will be the one to make the final call on all decisions.”

  The director’s chin dips in acceptance, but Agent Smith doesn’t make any attempt to acknowledge I spoke.

  “I'll ensure Agent Washington understands the situation and consequences of not utilizing Agent Smith’s unique skill set for the team,” the director states.

  I debate this kink in the plan to gain my previous team back. Rolling my shoulders, I stiffen my spine. In negotiations, you always get out when you're ahead, which I did today, even if it comes with a small burden.

  “Sounds like I don't have an option if I want my team back.” I steal a quick glance at my watch. “Hell, I'm already running behind and it's only nine.” Rubbing at my temples, I sigh. “I'll leave you to figure out the logistics of the team switch. I’ll need to meet with Agent Washington before the official change to inform him of my upcoming travel schedule and additional adjustments that have changed since I stepped into the role.”

  The wooden frame creaks as I push off the thin arms of the chair to stand. The new agent shifts, his light gray eyes meeting mine when I pause in front of him.

  “You have a first name, Agent Smith?” I ask as I straighten out my jacket and grab my handbag from the floor.

  “Yes.”

  I pause, waiting for more before realizing he’s said all he’s going to say on that subject. “Fine.” I roll my eyes in sheer annoyance at him and this already off-schedule day. His widen a fraction before flashing back to general boredom. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it out of you at some point over the next couple of years. I’m Randi Sawyer, by the way. Nice to meet you.” My extended hand dangles in the small space separating us, waiting for him to reciprocate in my common courtesy handshake.

  After a few tense moments, his hand engulfs mine. The contact lasts less than a second before he returns his hand to his side. I gape at my now empty hand, deliberating if I imagined the brief encounter entirely.

  “This will be interesting,” I mutter under my breath as I brush past him. At the door, I school my features and pull it open.

  Ten sets of intense stares greet me, but I only focus on Trey.

  “Walk with me,” I order while motioning between Trey and Tank. The two fall into step beside me as we march back through the office building. “She agreed with one condition.” Hooking a thumb over my shoulder, I gesture to the near-mute Agent Smith. “He's joining the team effective immediately.”

  Tank grunts a curse. I refrain from wincing. I know this isn’t ideal for him.

  “I had to give somewhere, T. We need to discuss a few things that have changed since I left the VP role, go through my routine in the White House, upcoming travel, and I’d also like for you to meet with the team lead of the current alpha team to discuss active threats against me and your plans for protection detail. Can both of you come by one day this week?”

  “Yes,” T says, responding for them both. “What day works best for you?”

  Our quick pace slows as we approach the bank of elevators. Trey hits the Down indicator before moving back to my right side.

  “My schedule is crazy these days. I'll ask my secretary to give you a call to find a time that works for all of us.”

  A rude, sarcastic snort to my right snags my attention. Rotating, I arch a questioning brow at Trey. “Is there a problem?”

  “Not at all, Madam President.”

  Irritation flares through my veins, building heat beneath my skin. The sharp ding of the arriving elevator doesn’t deflect the tense stare down he and I are having. Tank steps into the awaiting elevator first, followed by another agent.

  “Out,” I say, snapping my fingers.

  “Ma'am,” the agent replies, sounding conflicted.

  “They're both agents. I'll be fine. I know you have at least ten guys on the bottom floor waiting anyway.” Not waiting for his answer, I step into the elevator and not so gently shove him forward while signaling for Trey to take the agent’s vacated place. The doors glide together, cutting off the furious agent's face from my view.

  The metal cage gives a soft jolt before descending. Tank, appearing to want to stay out of the little conversation Trey and I are about to have, positions himself in front of the doors, giving us some semblance of privacy.

  “Cameras,” Tank mutters over his shoulder while keeping his dark eyes forward.

  “Right.” I sigh. Squaring my shoulders, I face the elevator doors. “What the hell was that comment about?” I snap at Trey, whose shoulder almost touches mine, while also glaring at the reflective metal.

  “You know as well as I do how we have to address you in public.”

  “It was your tone,” I hiss.

  “My tone?”

  “Yeah, like….” I wave a hand in front of me as I try to find the right words.

  “You were trying to make a point.”

  I point to T. “Thank you, T, exactly.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Trey scrub a hand down his face. “I didn't mean it any way. I'm just tired, okay?”

  “Can you come over tonight?” I whisper while turning my face down so the cameras can't see my lips moving.

  “We're on shift tonight.”

  “Oh, right.” Disappointment drops my stomach, the earlier anger morphing into acute loneliness. “Okay, yeah. I'll see you soon though, right?” There's no masking the hope in my wistful tone.

  “Mess,” he says on a sigh. There's a long pause before he speaks up again. “You have enough on your plate besides trying to plan around me.”

  Forgetting all presidential decorum, I spin on my heels and face him straight on.

  “Don't use my job as a damn excuse, Trey Benson. If you don't want to see me, then just say it. I'm a big girl. I can take it.” That's a bald-faced lie. Him saying those words would break me. “Are you done with us?” Somehow I continue to breathe
past the mounting panic in my chest. The elevator seems to heat. Sweat slicks my palms, and my head swims as I teeter on my heels.

  The elevator glides to a halt.

  Pursed lips mixed with Trey’s annoyed glare offer me zero indication on how this monumental conversion will end.

  When the doors slide open, those ten agents I knew would be down here securing the lobby stand waiting, their attention everywhere, searching for threats. But I don't move toward the open doors; instead, I glower right back at the frustrated asshat I love.

  “That's not…. What are you talking about? You're blowing this way out of proportion,” he whisper-yells. “Calm the hell down.”

  “Excuse me?” My tone, those two words like a cracking whip, triggers every man in the vicinity to hold their breath.

  “Damn idiot,” I catch T grumble. Turning to face us both, he levels Trey with a hard look.

  “Can you shoot him for me?” I question, pointing to the man I can't even look at right now without wanting to wrap my fingers around his throat.

  “Just listen to me,” Trey grates, the words more of a low hiss than actual syllables.

  “Fucking hell.” T grunts. “We're out. You have her,” he declares over his shoulder to the awaiting agents. “Now get your stupid ass out of the damn elevator.”

  Trey winces at the viselike grip T slams on his shoulder to drag his best friend out of the elevator.

  Their hushed exchange fades as they stride toward the glass doors. Filling my lungs with a deep inhale, I settle my stoic features back into place before striding out of the elevator.

  Even though my stomach churns with worry and anxiety, I have to shut it down. Now. I cannot let what happened affect me, not anymore. I no longer have the luxury of dwelling. Old Randi, sure, she'd probably go have a few shots of expensive booze she couldn't afford and list his number on Craigslist in the M/M personal section.

  New Randi can't even blink too long or everyone will know I'm dying on the inside.

  Of course, that's not what he meant earlier, and sure, he was slightly right about me blowing things out of proportion. But it’s been too long since I've seen him, since he’s wrapped me in his protective hold and held me together in a way only he can. I need him near as my balance. The calm to my sometimes dramatic thoughts and fears.

  Since the night he walked out of my room, I’ve felt adrift. Those few hours we shared reminded me of how amazing it feels to have someone near who actually cares about you, not the role you currently fill.

  A burst of repetitive vibrations against my side shifts my thoughts back to the present. After clearing my throat, I continue to move with the mass of men toward the limo while reaching inside the bag hooked over my shoulder. My fingers shift through the contents until I locate the vibrating phone.

  “Blake,” I say in non-greeting. I learned the first day that no one wastes time on pleasantries.

  “We have a problem.”

  Clenching my teeth, I shut down the urge to scream and heave the phone at the hot cement sidewalk.

  “Of course we do. Be back in ten.”

  Bending at the waist, I fold into the limo and wait for the agent to shut the door before chunking the annoying device as hard as I can against the leather seat.

  I fucking hate my job.

  Chapter Eight

  Trey

  “Take your giant fucking mitt of a hand off me,” I complain as I stumble behind Tank, who’s still dragging me like I’m a disobedient toddler. At the door to the SUV, he chucks me forward. Reacting fast, I catch myself on the hard metal before my face can collide with the dark-tinted window. A sudden pressure between my shoulder blades keeps me against the hot metal.

  “I just saved your damn life, you motherfucking fool.” If Tank presses any closer, the bystanders will think he's about to Mike Tyson my ear. And he’s cussing. This is bad. He’s hot about something, and that something seems to be me. “You do not, under any circumstances, tell a woman to calm down during a fight.” With a firm shove, he removes his hand from my back. Not wasting the newfound freedom, I flip around, pressing my ass to the door to bend forward, hands on my knees, listening as he continues his lecture. “And you do not ever, ever, say they're blowing something out of proportion. That's asking to be smothered in your damn sleep. How in the hell are you still alive is what I’d like to know.”

  I gesture over my face. “Money, good looks, and a fat dick.” My lips tilt south as my new reality reminds me that’s no longer true nowadays. “At least I still have the last two.” Randi still doesn’t know, nor will she if I can keep it from her. Unease tenses my gut, making my chest constrict.

  “You're a lost cause.”

  “She loves it,” I say, forcing the same fake smile I’ve worn for weeks now.

  “Not currently.”

  The frown on my lips deepens. “You don't think she loves me anymore?”

  “Get in the damn truck.”

  “SUV,” I correct.

  “Get. In,” he bellows while thrusting a finger against my breastbone. “I'm done pussyfooting around your pansy ass. We're dealing with your shit right now.”

  “Now?” I ask, hesitating over the door handle, the scorching chrome heating my already sweaty palm.

  He ignores my question as he rounds the hood, making his way to the driver side. I consider the busy sidewalk in search of a rapid departure. The mention of working through my fucked-up head ignites my fight-or-flight instinct, insisting I run from my friend.

  “Don't even think about it.” I choose not to turn toward Tank’s deep voice. “I know where you work and live. I will find you, and I will make you deal with this. It's time, Benson. She needs you, and you're too messed up in the motherfucking head to see that. Pull your head out of your ass for one minute and stop being a spoiled, selfish bastard.”

  I huff, my lips parting to disagree, but he slams the door after sliding inside the car, preventing me from defending myself unless I climb into the SUV too. Groaning combined with a fragment of whining, I yank the door open and fold myself inside. The arctic AC immediately greets me, chilling my heated cheeks and sweat-dotted forehead.

  “Where are we going?” I cross both arms over my chest and slouch in the seat like a pouting teenager.

  Not deeming me worthy of a response, Tank ignores me as he presses a button on the steering wheel. The speakers crackle to life, and the distinct ring of an outgoing call pours through the small space.

  “Hey, baby,” says the one voice that can be loving and terrifying as fuck in the same breath.

  I sit up straight and uncross my arms. “Why are you calling her?” I hiss.

  “Man Child?” Sarah says over the speakers.

  “We're headed your way. I need your help getting through to him.”

  “Finally,” she grumbles, annoyance clear in her voice. “I'm done with you moping around the apartment because you're worried about him.”

  “Aw.” I shift in the leather seat to face T, placing my elbows on the center console and resting my chin on my fists as I bat my lashes at him. “You were worried about me.”

  “We're twenty minutes out. Be there soon.” The background static cuts off as he ends the call.

  “You love me,” I say, reaching over and laying a hand over his thigh. Surprisingly, keeping a straight face is more difficult than keeping my shit together the past few weeks.

  “I will break every finger on that hand, Playboy.” I snatch it back to my side, a genuine smile fighting its way through for the first time in weeks. “And yes, if you must know, I've been worried about you.”

  Dropping the act, I rest my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. “I just need time.”

  “You're out of time. We all are. We're stepping up to the presidential alpha security team. I need you on fucking point, and I need my friend.”

  “I've told you I'm fine.”

  “You think you're the only one who thinks he failed that kid?” Peeking an eye ope
n, I watch my friend’s fingers as they tighten, his knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I was his team lead. I allowed him to lead that team in Austin. I knew he wasn't ready for that kind of responsibility, but it was what he wanted, and I knew he'd do a good job. I put him in the role that got him killed.”

  Suddenly the selfishness comment he shouted earlier takes root, supporting his claim. I am a selfish bastard. Here I am dwelling on all my issues when my best friend is drowning in guilt. I’m a damn asshole.

  “Davis.” I scrub a hand over my face before running my fingers through my hair. “He was ready for that role. How would any of us have known something like that would happen to the VP's daughter? We had extra protection that night even. It could've been any one of us.”

  “Is that what's eating you?”

  I mull over his question, not really sure of the honest response. “Maybe. It's a damn punch to the balls when the reality of what could happen to any one of us actually happens.” The cold air fills my lungs as I inhale deep. “Being shot didn't help either. I was almost a casualty to this job too.”

  “Yeah you were.”

  Shifting in the seat, I rest my elbow on the door and press two fingertips to the cloth-covered roof. “A lot changed that day.” My uncomfortable cough diverts his attention from the windshield for half a second. “I think that's what’s wrong.”

  “Do you regret confronting your parents?”

  “Fuck no,” I say with strength behind it. “My father is a perverted asshole who is currently getting what he deserves. Same with my mother. She's finally being exposed for who she truly is. No, I don't regret it, but that doesn't change the fact that the core of who I am shifted that day. Then the shooting, surgery, waking up and finding out Randi was sworn in.” The hand on my thigh tightens into a fist. “What do I have to offer her now?”

  “I don't follow.” Switching hands on the wheel, he leans an elbow against the door, mirroring me. “You're still the same idiot you were before you were shot. She knows all about your parents and knows it had nothing to do with you.”